A Wish to Build a Dream On
Vivian Vaughan
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1997 by Jane Vaughan
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information, email [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition February 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-675-6
Also by Vivian Vaughan
Storms Never Last
Sweetheart of the Rodeo
The Texas Star Trilogy
Texas Gamble
Texas Dawn
Texas Gold
Silver Creek Stories
Heart’s Desire
Texas Twilight
Runaway Passion
Sweet Texas Nights
To
Bobby and Stephen
For teaching me the measure of a son’s love
And the depth of a mother’s.
Central Texas, 1876
Following an unusually wet winter, spring wildflowers bloomed early in the valley of the Pedernales. Andie Dushane trudged up the hill, carrying an old tomato can filled with a mixed bouquet of bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes. When she reached a well-tended grave, she knelt on the rocky ground and settled the flowers against the crude wooden cross.
“Oh, Samuel,” she whispered, near tears, “tell me what to do. I know I promised not to give up, but it’s so hard. I don’t know much more about ranching now than I did before you died. And with only a child for help…Oh, Jordan’s a good boy, Samuel. You’d be proud of him. And I’ll never let him forget you. But it’s been two years; I can’t hold on much longer.”
Wiping a tear off her cheek with the back of a callused hand, she focused on the flowers instead of on the rock-blanketed grave. The rocks were necessary to keep away varmints, but even after all this time they still brought visions of Samuel’s skeletal frame and memories of his last wretched days and pain-filled nights, of his emaciated body and dull, lifeless eyes, of his fevers, which she had been unable to break, and his deliriums, which echoed endlessly through her mind—
“Don’t leave me, Andie. Don’t leave me alone.”
She hadn’t. She sat night and day, day and night, holding him, bathing him, praying for him. In the end, he left her.
Oh, Lord, would she never forget the bad times? Until the end of her days would she hear only his cries and never his laughter? See only his wasted body and never his beautiful strength?
She felt guilty thinking about herself; her husband’s dying had been so hard. But living was hard, too. Rays of the setting sun streamed over her shoulder and glinted from the golden centers of the orangy-red Indian paintbrushes. Gold, which in any other form was scarce as hen’s teeth on the Dushane ranch. Andie was broke. She had failed to make a living for their son.
“I’ve been offered a job in town, Samuel. Cooking at Long’s Cafe. Uncle Kipp found it for me. He’s been lookin’ after Jordan and me better’n most blood-relatives would have done. We can sleep in his back room, if I take the job. I know I promised to raise Jordan on the ranch, but…” A muted sob drowned her words.
“Ma.” Jordan’s warm hand touched her arm. “You still miss Pa, don’t you?”
She nodded. Jordan knelt by her side.
“I miss him, too, Ma, but he wouldn’t want you to sit out here cryin’.” The child’s maturity added to Andie’s misery. At nine, he should be in school, have friends, be a boy, while he was still young. She looked into his small, sad face. A little round face that was even now lengthening to the oval shape of his pa’s.
Reaching, she tousled his towhead. Samuel had been fair, too. Even before his illness, Samuel had blistered rather than tanned beneath the strong Texas sun. But that hadn’t diminished him; a lifetime of hard work had produced a strong, firm body.
She glanced away from Jordan’s hazel eyes, for they, too, were like his pa’s. Serious, now, as Samuel’s had been at times; but a deep streak of playfulness had run through both father and son. More often than not it showed in their eyes. And in their smiles. Samuel’s smile had lit up his eyes and the whole world with them—Andie’s world, at least. How she longed to see that smile again, even in her dreams.
Jordan’s hand sought hers. “Don’t cry, Ma. You never used to. You used to laugh.” He brightened. “And dance.” Jumping to his feet, he pulled her up beside him. “Remember how you an’ Pa used to dance in the moonlight? It was your most favorite thing. Remember?” Speaking, he tugged her away from the grave, to a rock-free clearing. “Come on, Ma. Dance with me.”
Without further prompting, he grabbed her around the waist and stepped off, singing, “Lou, lou, skip to my Lou. Lou, lou…” What his voice lacked in timbre, it made up for in enthusiasm.
Andie followed her chest-high son, her heart lodged in her throat. Dancing with Jordan didn’t ease her loneliness, but it brought her back to the present. The present, where her duty to her son outweighed every other concern.
Stopping abruptly, Jordan pointed to the sky. “Look, Ma. The wishing star.”
The wishing star, indeed. Gazing forlornly at the Evening Star, Andie wished for one thing—the healing spirit of youth.
“Star light, star bright,” Jordan recited. “First star I’ve seen tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.” His eyes were squinched tight. His sincerity tugged at her heart.
“I wish for a new husband for my ma. For her birthday.”
“Samuel Jordan Dushane! I do not need a new husband!”
“Yes, you do, Ma. Ranchin’s almighty hard work, an’ lonely, too. You need someone…”
Dropping to her knees, Andie cradled him against her shoulder. “I have you, Jordan. You’re all I need.” She held him back, smiled wanly into his serious eyes. “How could I be lonely? You’re the spittin’ image of your pa, his own flesh and blood. And mine. Don’t you see? You’re part of us both. Having you is like having him.” She pressed the child’s face to her shoulder again, lest he see the small but, to her mind, necessary falsehood. “Your pa was a good man, Jordan. The best. And I intend to see that you grow up just like him.”
I
“Don’ take no sass, lil’ gal. Chuck wagon cook runs the show, an’ you let ’em know you know it first thing out o’ the chute.” Uncle Kipp’s instructions echoed through Andie’s head the whole day long, interspersed with her own admonition that she should have stayed home and taken the job at Long’s Cafe instead of heading off to cook for a herd of trail drive cowboys.
But Uncle Kipp and Jordan found her the job and insisted she take it. She hadn’t needed much encouragement; Miz Long’s dollar a day couldn’t compare with cattle drive pay.
“Reese Catlin’s got some burr under his saddle blanket,” Uncle Kipp explained after Jordan brought her the startling news that she had been hired to cook for a trail herd headed for Kansas. “Wants to drive the first herd into Wichita this spring, an’ he’s payin’ fightin’ wages to get the job done—three hundred dollars, double the goin’ rate for a chuck wagon cook.”
Three hundred dollars! Three hundred dollars would see them through the summer and winter, too. With three hundred dollars, she could hold onto things a while longer.
; “What did he say about me bein’ a woman?” Andie had quizzed.
“Nary a word,” the old mercantile proprietor insisted. “Catlin’s a no-nonsense trail boss, Andie. Built up a right proper reputation for hisself in the cattle country. Ain’t heard nary an ill word spoken against him, neither. I wouldn’t send you off with someone I wouldn’t trust alone with my own mama.”
Jordan was especially excited. “He ain’t married, Ma.”
“Isn’t, Jordan.” She smiled, rueful. She took Jordan’s meaning, while realizing the futility of his wish. Even if she were in the market for a husband, Reese Catlin wouldn’t be a candidate. From Uncle Kipp’s description, he must be in his doddering years. But why spoil Jordan’s fantasy?
She’d had a week to tie up things at home and provision the wagon; a week for Uncle Kipp to tutor her in the ways of a chuck wagon cook. Now that week was up, and she had arrived at the appointed site. She glanced around, pleased.
All was in order. Pot roasts and potatoes steamed in Dutch ovens; sourdough biscuits rose beneath flour sack towels. In the black iron pot, frijoles burbled merrily, while Andie’s culinary speciality, six sour cream pound cakes, lovingly baked before she left home, were wrapped in brandy-soaked towels.
“Make the first meal count,” Uncle Kipp had cautioned. “Thataway, if there’s any dissentin’ cowpoke among ’em, he’ll be won over ’fore he can spoil the barrel.”
The first dissenting cowboy turned out to be the night horse wrangler, Night Hawk, who rode into camp midafternoon to help set up. A tall, rawboned kid, with a head of shaggy brown hair that Andie vowed to tackle first when the drovers lined up for her barbering skills, he had been visibly taken aback at finding a woman in camp.
Andie sliced him a hunk of cake. “I’m told Mister Catlin hired only the best, which must mean you’re an expert at working with stock horses.”
“For a fact, ma’am. This’ll be my third year up the trail.”
She ladled a dipper of mustang grape syrup over the cake. “Night Hawk,” she mused. “How did you come by such a name?”
The first taste of that buttery, brandy-flavored cake lit up the boy’s eyes. He spoke around bites. “My job’s to keep track of a hundred and twenty head of horses and two extra wagon mules in the dark o’ night, ma’am. That calls for eyes like a hawk.”
“No doubt. Well, my job is to keep a dozen hardworking, hungry men fed. I’m an expert at that.”
Night Hawk glanced up from his empty tin plate. “You surely are that, ma’am. Might I trouble you for another piece?”
By the time he had eaten half a cake, Night Hawk was eating out of Andie’s hand, true to Uncle Kipp’s predictions. He inspected the fire trench and allowed how diggin’ it was his job, an’ he an’ Jordan would take care of it in the future. He helped Jordan put up the canvas tepee Uncle Kipp had insisted Andie bring along for privacy. Together the boys snaked in firewood, which they stored in the hide hammock slung beneath the wagon—Night Hawk called it a possum sack. After that, he called it a day.
“Time for me to get some shut-eye, ma’am. I’ll crawl on up in the wagon there and get my forty winks ’fore it’s time to relieve ol’ Hank, the day wrangler.”
“Boy, oh boy, Ma!” Jordan danced from foot to foot. “This trip’s gonna be better than goin’ to a circus!”
Andie hugged him close. Something told her he might not allow much hugging in the months to come, not in front of a dozen cowboys. Tears sprang to her eyes, as a gossamer vision warned of the changes this trip could produce in her precious young son.
“Isn’t this a perfect campsite, Ma? That Reese Catlin must be a real smart man.”
“It’s Mister Catlin, Jordan. Everyone calls the trail boss mister. And yes, he did choose a good campsite. As to how smart he is in other matters, we’ll have to wait and see.”
“He chose Night Hawk. He’s the best wrangler ever.”
She grinned. “Unless I miss my bet, you and Night Hawk are going to be great friends.”
“Yahoo!” Jordan had been looking out over the prairie. When his eyes widened suddenly, Andie followed his gaze to a rider who approached from the direction of the cattle herd. A fissure of trepidation speared through her confidence.
“That must be Mister Catlin.” She whispered a silent prayer that the trail boss would find her work acceptable. She needed this job so badly. “His message said to expect him by sundown.”
“Mister Catlin?” Jordan rushed to the chuckbox and picked up a bucket. “I’ll fetch some water from the creek.”
“We don’t need…” But he was already out of sight. Andie turned to the approaching rider. The last rays of sunlight splashed over the prairie, burnishing the early spring grass a greenish gold. A muted scent of wildflowers wafted on the evening breeze. Sundown, her favorite time of day.
Or it had been. She suspected that sundown on a trail drive might be more hectic than tranquil, what with twelve hungry men arriving to be fed at one time.
The rider headed straight for the wagon. Uncle Kipp had warned her to keep a gun handy, and indeed her loaded six-shooter was stashed in the chuck box. But this rider would surely be Reese Catlin, who was obviously a punctual man. She liked that.
For the hundredth time she wondered why he was so dead set on getting to Wichita ahead of the other herds. Was it a wager? Pride? Greed? Whatever, she would have to thank him. For his need, or greed, would be her reward. Her salvation.
The rider skirted the camp to the lee side, a practice necessary to keep dust from flying into the food, according to Uncle Kipp. Andie watched him hitch his horse, a big dun with black mane and white stockings. The man was big, too. When he turned toward her, she was startled to see that he was a young man.
Mid-thirties, she judged with quickened heart. His brown handlebar mustache didn’t have one gray hair that she could see. Uncle Kipp had spoken so reverently of him, she had assumed Reese Catlin to be in his fifties or better. Maybe this wasn’t Mister Catlin. The thought brought a stirring of panic. She glanced to the spring. No sight of Jordan. She moved toward the chuck box, eyeing him warily as he approached.
The Stetsoned man halted in the middle of the clearing. His spurs stopped jingling. Silence pervaded the camp. But although he stood head and shoulders above her, he didn’t appear threatening. Her uneasiness waned.
He removed his hat, rubbed his sleeve over a sweaty brow. He glanced around. His eyes lingered on the fire, where supper waited. His gaze moved to the wagon, hesitated on the brand on its side—an entwined RC—moved to her. His brown eyes were the darkest she had ever seen, like a bar of baking chocolate. But they offered no threat. Rather, he looked confused, as though he had lost something.
“Where’s Andy Dushane?” His question ended on a high note.
According to Uncle Kipp, the cook was in charge of the campsite, so Andie stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Andie Dushane. You must be Mister Catlin. Welcome to camp, sir. Coffee’s hot. Let me pour you a cup.”
He took her hand, squinting as though bewildered. “You…?”
“I’ve prepared pot roast and—”
“You’re Andy Dushane?” His eyes widened to the size of silver dollars. “But you’re a…you’re…a lady.”
The word lady, though softly spoken, staggered her. “You didn’t know?”
“Know? Hell, if I’d known I wouldn’t have…” Reese dropped her hand like it was a hot pot lid. He looked around the camp, then back to her, one brow quirked, as if he expected her to confess to pulling a prank.
“Uncle Kipp didn’t tell you…” She glanced down inadvertently. When she looked back, his eyes were taking her in, too, what wasn’t hidden beneath the voluminous canvas apron. Her stomach fluttered. “That I’m a woman?”
“A woman!” Reese spun away. He stepped to the fire, where, using a pot hook, he lifted first one lid, then another, releasing mouthwatering aroma each time. He moved to the wagon, looked in, inspected the provisions and the sleepi
ng occupant. Gaining momentum, he strode to the back of the wagon, to the gateleg table, called the lid. After he had examined every cubbyhole in the chuckbox, he lifted the flour sack towels that covered six dozen rising sourdough biscuits. His eyes at last settled on the cakes, five and a half pound cakes.
Andie felt sick. She fought a futile urge to berate the absent Uncle Kipp for his subterfuge. Slipping a tin cup from its corner, she filled it from the pot on the fire and set it on the table before Reese Catlin, even though an unwritten law of the trail permitted no one but the cook to touch the lid. “Let me cut you a piece of cake, Mister Catlin. I thought this first night—”
“Damn it to hell, woman. The boys won’t stand for this. They’ll stampede faster than lightnin’-spooked cattle. And I’ve got to get this herd to market.”
And I have to have this job. Desperation clawed its way up her throat. She took a deep breath to steady her voice. “I understand.” Picking up the cup, she held it toward him. After a cursory glance, he accepted it. “Uncle Kipp explained your goal to drive the first herd into Wichita.”
He gulped a swallow of hot coffee and glared at her.
“To do that,” she continued, “you have hired the best men available. No greenhorn, wet-behind-the-ears kids looking to play cowboy. You’ve hired the best.”
“Dang right and they’ll…”
“That includes me, Mister Catlin. I’m an excellent cook. I can keep your men fed and healthy.”
“There’s more to bein’ a trail cook than lightin’ a fire, Andy…uh, Miz Dushane.” He glared at the wagon as if it, too, offended him. “You expect to drive this rig five hundred miles? Over prairies and mountains, through rivers and rain storms, across mud flats and bogs?”
“Indeed I do.” At his skeptical frown, she added, “Six years ago on our move from Virginia to Texas, my husband broke his leg. I not only set the break, but I drove us the rest of the way, without aid of cowhands to ferry the wagon across rivers or fix broken axles or hitch the team or build campfires, all of which I understand are customary on a cattle drive.”
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